To fall
by Isolith
Summary: Post-Poster-Boy. She's seeking comfort and he's only too happy to oblige; even if it's something that's bound to be a crucial turning point in their lives.
1. into grief

…

_Summary: Post-Poster-Boy. She's seeking comfort and he's only too happy to oblige; even if it's something that's bound to be a crucial turning point in their lives. _

_A/N: #comfort sex# - especially needed after the way that episode ended; Gah! 'Nuff said. Hope you enjoy. =)_

…

**To fall**

…

Certainly, this is not what he has imagined – and he's imagined it enough times to be able to come up with a variety of scenarios to indulge in and yet reality is so much more real, so much more absurd – it's so novel. That's the little thing about imagination and real life, it just doesn't add up. Fantasy and reality are just two very strange bedfellows when it comes down to it.

Otherwise she wouldn't be crying in the middle of everything; she wouldn't be choking on a sob, lips trembling and eyes suddenly closing as if she's afraid he'll see her vulnerability. He sees her clear, feels her – it's hard not to feel the small succession of breaths she takes, rapidly following each other, when her chest has collapsed on his, naked skin against naked skin. He feels every little shudder as clearly as if it is himself in distress; he feels every slip of air that leaves her lungs, every slip of air that follows her trachea back down again.

His hand catches her jaw, under her chin, acting before he can truly comprehend the situation, fingers soft against her skin. It pains him - green eyes covered by a sheen of tears, on the brim of leaking – pain deep in the color, pain contained within her irises. He seeks the connection, tries to hang onto a link with her but she looks away, turning her head to the side, cheek resting against his chest instead, her breath hot, her cheek suddenly wet with tears.

Shit.

"I'm - " her voice stops and she breathes deep, "I'm sorry."

"Shh," he whispers feeling inadequate, trying to recall that sensation of comforting others, trying to bring forth the feeling from the depths; he's been alone for too long – been in a dark hole when it concerns connecting heart-to-heart with another being.

He traces his hand down her back instead, traversing up and down in a pattern he hopes is calming, trying to let a tender touch pervade through her sudden onslaught of sorrow, the feel of her skin warm beneath his fingertips, beneath his palm. Strength leaves her completely, heavy as she lies on top of him, any notion of what they had been in the middle of a faraway realm. "Shhh, it's okay," he mumbles into the top of her head, hair obscuring his voice; he feels her hot breath against his chest, her cheek burrowing further down into his skin trying to compress away a sob, her nose cold and wet.

Certainly this is not how he has imagined sex would evolve between them but it is what he should have expected on some level, he thinks.

This is just wrong timing.

She's fragile – a state that had been easily perceivable and yet it had happened; he should have foreseen this. Maybe he should have stopped her when she snuck her hand to his groin, maybe he should have gently taken her wrist and instead tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and told her the lay of the land, comforted her the way a real friend would have comforted her – yet he had simply kissed her harder, enjoyed the feel of a warm hand against his crotch, pressing and exerting force, expediting arousal to coil in his spine; god he hadn't felt like this in years – when it came down to it he was simply greedy, oblivious to anything but his own release, his own feelings too overwhelming to consider the consequences.

It's just the way the world sometimes exists; spinning outside your control, shattering expectations. He's sure that she's never thought it would be like this either – it makes him wonder what she has imagined but somehow he thinks he'll never know. It's slipped past them now, no longer a possibility.

Heart wrenching; it's slowly killing him.

It kills the mood certainly, his cock no longer hard – soft and limpid as it slips out of her. She chokes back another sob and he rubs her back, trying to mumble something coherent to her, trying to soften reality.

Reality, however, is what it is. There's no turning the clock back, there's no comfort in what-if's.

The boy's gone.

…

_Her mouth has a flavor of sweetness, the hint of something he's not quite able to categorize lingering on the tips of her lips, lingering in her mouth, on her tongue, heady and yet brisk, overwhelming as he traces his own lips against hers, as he licks the inside of her mouth, sure it's a gift to be able to kiss her at all. _

_Oh, he's imagined it – kissing her softly, kissing her hard, kissing her angrily – kissing her at work, in the elevator – kissing her in the underground garage, backed up against a concrete column, next to his car – maybe against the front door into his car, at his daughter's wedding when their eyes connected time and time again, in court sitting next to her; summarily he has imagined kissing her an infinite number of times, with an infinite number of emotions – in infinite places and yet this is novel; this is not infinity but reality and it's sweet and overwhelming, crushing his heart between two heavy objects, squeezing the life blood out of the beating organ, squeezing his lungs till they collapse and he has trouble breathing yet alone existing. _

_Who knew her lips were in possession of such controversy; of such a complexity – of being able to bring him to the edge; he's aching and hard but his heart is melting – who knew her lips were accompanied by a palm against his crotch, rubbing through the material of his pants; he might have imagined it but it's so different, so much more alive now than in his imaginations. _

_He moans into her lips and he finds himself savoring the returned whimper, the teeth that suddenly click against each other, lips that are pulled back when they smile self-aware at each other, at their own hurry to consume each other, at the way they stumble and hands find another purpose underneath clothes, changing directions, hanging onto the warm skin of another human being. Her fingers slide through his hair, slide into the strands, suddenly a tight grip, tilting his head and inserting her own lips in between his again, insistent. _

_They stumble into his bedroom, not bothering with turning on a light. It's dark and mysterious this way, secluded, his whole body tingling in anticipation. Excitement, liquefied, running through his blood vessels, compelling him to run his hands down her body, to cup her breasts through her blouse, the feel of her bra beneath, to guide her towards his bed, a leg between hers. _

_It's wet and rough, contact brimming with intention to build, to hurry along, to coalesce into arousal. Lips, teeth, hands – it's uncoordinated and wild, and yet there's something about it that he finds comforting. There's no 'we shouldn't', no 'lieutenant', no 'captain'. Frankly, he has already forgotten the numerous reasons why this is a bad idea, why they haven't ventured down this road before now – he's occupied, she's occupied. Her knees back into the edge of his bed, and she pull him against her, a leg going up high, around him. _

_They land, softly next to each other, out of breath. _

_Their lips latch onto each other again, within a heartbeat if not quicker, fingers roaming through clothes to dig into the contours of shape, to ground themselves to the feeling of another human being, fingers clamped around flesh and clothes. He rolls closer, his weight heavy on top, lips still sealed. She hums and he grunts; she kisses him harder and he gives back, fingers at the back of her nape, in her hair, a thumb along her jaw to keep her. _

_She invites him in, surrounds him with her legs around his middle till he's firmly on top. _

_He wonders how this came to pass at all; he'd gotten used to it merely being a fantasy in his own little world, had thought it would be an impossible scenario. He wonders if she's conscious of the fact that she's married, technically. They both know this is without a doubt a stupid transgression but he also knows what lies behind intentions and to be honest it feels too glorious to deny it. _

_His lips are glued to hers, and for the life of him he cannot unglue them. They are attached by a myriad of conflicting emotions, lust, grief – maybe a smidge of anger he thinks because if he's angry on her behalf then she's bound to be angry as well. Maybe in between this chaos there's also a little feeling of relief; of finally being able to express himself._

…

_She has closed her blinds and in between the gaps light streams, translucent and bright. Her door is closed and if it weren't for the fact that it's been a lousy couple of days he would have thought nothing of it and merely gone home. Having been privy to the last couple of days however, having watched her usual composed expression falter and compress itself into steal that's been forged too hurriedly, he knows that beneath the surface it's not merely a closed door and closed blinds. _

_He admires her strength and her ability to let her curtains fall aside; there's something about her that beckons and intrigues him, the capacity to emit both vulnerability and strength in one little look. He knows she can take care of herself and that it's not his responsibility and yet he lingers at his desk, contemplating how he can help her. _

_It's a strange concept but he feels protective of her, not sure why or when this feeling surfaced. She's the last person he would have imagined feeling protective of and if you'd asked him years ago he would have laughed out loud at the notion and yet now that's the way he feels. She's genuine and it's a mystery to him why he did not notice this before she took over the division. _

_He gently knocks on her door before he can reconsider, opening it and stepping into her office at her soft 'Yes'._

_He smiles, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, her chair turning in his direction; there's a small pile of folders on her desk, her computer in front of her and a little bowl of carrot slices. _

"_Lieutenant," she smiles back and even though it's not forced or artificial he senses the edges of sorrow in the lines around her face, in the tired green look in her eyes. _

"_I'm going home," he says, "You alright, Captain?"_

_She tries to compose herself but doesn't really succeed. _

"_I'm fine."_

_He corks his head and arches an eyebrow in disbelief._

_She smiles self-consciously and it touches him, an ache within at the sight of her. He looks at his watch – 9 pm – and then with a soft smile, "It's late and everyone's left – let's call it a day, huh."_

"_You're ordering me to go home?" she says it with a low tone, standing upright, her expression becoming composed within a flicker; it's a fluid transition and he wonders when he has become so familiar with every little nuance she presents with a simply blink of an eye, with a simple miniscule movement of her lips. _

"_I'm a reckless, disobedient hothead – haven't you read my file?" he shrugs with a half-smile, enjoying the way he's able to make her smile and relax, her shoulders not so rigid anymore, the lines around her mouth softening. _

_It works and she shakes her head, a smile playing at her lips now, "Now you mention it, you've been awfully well-behaved as of late."_

_He smiles wider, "Yeah – but let's go home before I run into trouble"_

"_Trouble – I'm sure you find trouble without running."_

_He grins. _

_She looks at the slice of carrot in her hand, the folders on her desk and there's a veil suddenly over her eyes, the humor gone and darkness seeming full in her irises when she regards him again; "I'm just going to finish up and then I'll get out of here – I promise." _

_He looks at her with confusion, not understanding her answer fully until she's fiddling with her hands, a distant look. She's stalling, he realizes. She's trying to avoid going back home. He understands why she would not like the notion of coming home to an empty apartment. _

_He nods, "That's your dinner?" he puts a tone of disbelief in his voice._

_She hums; "I'm going to go grocery shopping on my way home – find something edible."_

"_You can eat leftovers with me," he smiles nervously, the invitation slipping from his lips before he can think, "I mean, if you want to. I have vegetarian lasagna from yesterday – enough to feed a whole army."_

_She smiles, "That actually sounds delicious – better than any half-tired attempt I would have gone through."_

_He nods, and she nods back. _

_He thinks maybe she needs to talk about it; talk about how horrible it is. He only wants to comfort her in some way, and if helping her avoid her own home for the time being is the thing to do, he's happy to help her. If she wants to pretend nothing's wrong then he'll follow along and pretend everything's perfectly normal. _

…

_She makes the first move, a hand sliding up along his jaw, cupping it and bringing him closer to her – he moves along with her motion almost hypnotized, feeling entranced; he had only given her a soft, encouraging smile, a little joke about leftovers. The oven hums with a warm sound, the light softly illuminating in his kitchen and her lips connect with his before he can fully understand what is happening or why it is happening. She's close to him, the feel of her small body pressed against his, his kitchen suddenly not his kitchen anymore but someplace else that feels surreal. _

_For a brief second he contemplates and ruminates but then something else washes over him, a feeling of excitement and serenity; he wants her desperately – he has wanted her for such a long time it's become a constant companion within him; he kisses her back, hands bringing her body against his own. _

…

_She sighs into his ear, fingers under his shirt, travelling up his back, legs around his middle. They are still fully clothed, in a heap on his bed, breathing heavily in the silent room. He slants his lips across her mouth again, catching her breath and the little moan that follows. She grinds up against him, impatient, fingers skimming down his back with a harder momentum than before. _

_He looks into her eyes when the kiss ends, trying to comprehend what they are trying to tell him._

_She speaks in a voice he finds captivating and new, "Don't go all tender on me, Andy, okay. I just want," she stops, a little wide-eyes look he takes to mean she's a bit embarrassed; she seems a bit lost as well, green eyes catching the darkness, "You're looking." _

"_You want me to close my eyes?" he asks, a bit confused._

_She shakes her head in the negative. _

"_I just don't want it to become too," she stops again and he thinks she's finding it hard to compile her thoughts into words, "I want overwhelming and rough," she whispers and he understands what it is she wants._

"_You just want me to fuck you," he says, his own voice rough but he pushes a strand of hair away from her face, his thumb along her temple, going tenderly down to her cheek. _

_She nods, a little breathless. Her lips fall apart and he lets his thumb catch the bottom lip, the tip of his finger on the mound. _

"_I can do that," he tells her, lips close to hers again, he bypasses her lips and goes along her cheek till he reaches her ear, "But I am going to be looking at you no matter what – and I cannot really change the fact that while I want to fuck you I also want to simply hold you."_

_She gives another little nod, "I'm not sure – it's, - I mean I'm just feeling a bit nervous," she stops, an inward look as if she's exasperated with herself._

"_You tell me what you want and I'll -"_

_She turns her head, catching his lips again, swallowing his voice; it humid and forceful, lips attached to each other, sucking, licking and biting – tasting, arousing. _

"_Just this," she says in between another kiss, "I just want this."_

_She's unbuckling his pants, hands having sneaked in between their bodies, her legs spread and he grips a thigh, running up under the skirt; he slips her underwear down with more force than he would have done under different circumstances but she wriggles under him, hips moving and another moan leaving her lips, and he understands the motion behind her request. _

"_Just make me forget everything," she whispers in between a kiss, their lips lingering close still, hot air and wetness separating them. She shoves his jeans down over his hips; her back arching and he feels the press of her lips once again on his, feels the pressure of her breasts surging upwards against him, "I just need to stay in the moment, for now. Nothing else." _

"_I'll make you forget your name," he smiles into her mouth and he catches the vibration of a small chuckle, her hand warm and gentle against his jaw; he wonders if she sees the contradiction in her words and actions. She smiles a shy smile when he leans down and kisses her again – there's no need to tell her he sees through her all the way to the dark bottom. She might seek an abyss and yet she wants solid ground; he can give her both, he hopes._

"_Maybe you'll forget yours," she smiles. _

…

_It's difficult to understand she's naked beneath him, naked legs around his waist now, breasts pressed up against him, full naked breasts that cling to his own chest, a full naked arm that moves with his hand around her wrist – he grips her other wrist, his hand around the pale flesh, bringing both arms over her head, keeping them above her, pressed into the mattress; she sighs, a noise low in her throat. _

_They stay above her when he lets go and moves down, lips on the curve of her throat, mouth attached to skin, blithe and ecstatic, soft lips and hard teeth interchanging; the slope of a breast appearing, the nipple that he sucks into his mouth. His hand play around her thighs, squeezing and tracing patterns, on the inside, inching upwards as he flicks his tongue over her nipple. She tightens her grip in his hair and he acquiesce; moving his mouth down her stomach, leaving behind a trail of wetness; he reaches the junction of her thighs and settles her legs over his shoulders, disappearing. Repositioning his hands on the sides of her stomach, just a little spot above the jut of her hipbones, he splays out his hands, fingers in a caress into her skin._

_Her breathing changes, hitches with anticipation, a breath of release when he lands his mouth on her, tongue in between her labia, exerting force against her clit. She wriggles, coming closer, her pelvis tilting in a more satisfying angle; the fingers in his hair changing between gripping hard and softening, fingertips gliding into his scalp. Her inhalations convey a thousand words, a little hum painting an even more vivid depiction. _

_He flattens his tongue, flicks it, presses it, circling that sensitive bud, lips moving in and covering, kissing and devouring; meanwhile he listens to the hurried intakes of breath, feels the way her hands leave his hair and goes someplace else – he looks up briefly, seeing her head arched back, exposed throat and the underside of her jaw pale, her arms stretched up above her as if she's reaching for something unseen; he's certain her eyes are closed._

_She shudders when she comes, his tongue still on her, hands flying to his hair again, uncertain whether she wants him to continue or stop, tightening in his hair and her hips moving. He moves up along her body again, attention to her breasts with his mouth as his fingers stay on her, thumb along her labia waiting for her to come back down – he sucks and nipples on the soft flesh of her breasts, alternating between the two mounds. She sighs, a tone of content in the air that leaves her lips and slips beneath his skin; he reapplies pressure on her clit again and he enjoys the way she's completely languid beneath him, legs falling more and more apart and her hands soft and encouraging on his back, digging into his muscles. _

…

_She slides down onto him, hand around his cock guiding. It feels like release at the same time it feels like coiled tension; a curious feeling inside him. Her thighs warm on either side of him, his back on the mattress. She sighs, eyes closing for a brief second – when they open she looks down at him with an inscrutable expression, mouth half open and a little sheen of redness on her cheeks, blotches of color down her throat, her hum of pleasure surging through him. _

_He traces both hands up along her waist, hips and ribcage beneath his palms, watching as she rocks against him, tilting her pelvic and grounds herself to his chest with her hands. _

_He watches her above him, breasts moving, his cock buried in friction, her hair falling in a mess. He cannot stop himself from caressing her skin, fingertips lingering on her with reverence and beguile, tracing invisible patterns and adhering to her body – she only steadies herself against him, hands burrowing further into his own flesh, her eyes alight. _

_He touches a spot on her spine, pushing her to come closer and she leans down their chests aligning as she meets his lips, his cock still embedded. They settle their lips, lingering and breathing in between kisses, sealing and embedding into each other in this way as well – he simply wants an imprint of her lips continuously on his, wants the feel of her body so close to his own, so warm and so animated. _

_She relaxes against his chest, her head turning to the side and her lips lands on the spot where neck meets shoulder; he can feel the reverberations of her small breaths, the humid air that tickle his skin before her lips follow – a kiss that turns to a bite. _

_He brings their groins flush against each other, holding her hips, guiding as he trusts, a fast rhythm that makes her bite harder on his shoulder, her fingers digging into his biceps all of a sudden. Small whimpers vibrate against his skin and he grunts, exertion in the air he breathes with. He savors the feel of her body on his own, the weight of her and the feeling of burrowing into her with a fast rhythm – release coming closer and closer within view, everything tensing and coiling and burning. _

_There's a shift in her, tautness twisting through her and he stops every motion able to differentiate distress from pleasure. _

_She sits up again, surprised at her own reaction he thinks, eyes vivid with sudden realization of sorrow. It was bound to happen, he thinks, only it was not supposed to be in the middle of this. She looks struck with horror in among embarrassment, sadness vivid to depict from the two other. _

…

She has stopped crying and for a brief moment he thinks she has fallen asleep, heavy on top of him, her breaths slow and deep, evening out their rhythm as if they are on standby. But no, she trembles a bit and inhales suddenly and deeply as if she's trying not to start crying again.

Softly, he's able to turn their bodies around, bringing along a cover across them. It's easy to situate himself behind her, spooning her, pulling her up against his chest, her ass against his groin. She sighs, pulling his arm over her hip and encasing it in between her breasts, her own hand around his.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into the soft skin just behind her ear, lips lingering with a kiss.

She makes a sound in her throat and then takes a deep breath; "Don't – don't apologize. Please."

"Okay," he whispers, uncertain.

Her ass backs up against him, her fingers tightening around his hand between her breasts; he press into her, her skin cold but welcome – he thinks maybe she needs to be submerged in contact. He would gladly cover every inch of her body if he could. He would do anything for her in this moment.

He bestows another small kiss behind her ear, merging his legs with hers, pressing his chest against her back, holding her tight against him. She sighs at the contact.

It a strange emotion within him; he'd long ago given up on finding it again, had long ago discarded the notion that it would be waiting for him. It's so light within him and yet it's heavy; like lead that floats, the notion of loving her seeming to be wrapped in nothing but contradiction. It is love; that he has come to terms with a while back. It's not just lust – it's not just excitement or a simple infatuation; it's heart wrenching, aching, giddy and absolute bewildering.

He bestows another little kiss to the side of her head, lips resting on her skin for a long moment. It's an emotion he's just recently acknowledged himself and under any other circumstances he would share it with her but not now, not this night. He thinks just the idea of them lying like this is enough for her to fathom and he knows that she's preoccupied by other thoughts than the thought of him.

Strangely enough he does not mind waiting, does not mind telling her another time – when she's ready for words. That and he thinks she can read what he's feeling; she's able to understand their actions today and what it means, he thinks. Otherwise she would have found some other way of coping – he hopes she feels comfortable with him and that's the reason she sought him out, the reason she fell into him.

"You can stay as long as you like," he tells her, sincerity in his voice.

Her hands tighten around his again, "Thank you."

He kisses her cheek and a little spot on her neck, lips on her skin, the feeling of wanting to soothe away her sorrow with nothing but touch a vibrant one inside him. Her skin is warm and her back is now hot against him.

They lie like this for a long time, silent and breathing; he's trying to synchronize with her movements, with the way her chest rises and falls, his lips on her pulse point on her neck. It's a transformation and he's able to tell she slowly falls into a rhythm of synchronization with him as well.

"I haven't slept next to someone in some time," she mumbles suddenly, her soft voice sounding loud in the darkness. He feels both curious and content, able to place the small note of not wonder but something that sounds close to wonder in her voice.

He hums, "Me neither." She breathes deep and he slides his lips closer to her ear, "I have to warn you though, I'm a furnace, I snore and I'm possibly going to treat you like a blanket."

She makes a little noise as if she's amused.

He settles his lips against her skin again, another little kiss because her skin beckons.

She sighs but it sounds half content and he only tightens his arms around her a little.

"You'll see him again," he says and he knows instantly that it's a topic she's not willing to touch upon, the way she stiffens in his arms, the way she suddenly stops breathing, rigid. But it needs to be said and she needs to talk about it.

"Don't," she warns but she stays close to him, still pressed against him.

"I know you don't wanna talk about it and I get it, okay. But you'll see him again, someday."

"Just don't, Andy," she sounds choked up, her voice trembling.

He sighs, "I want you to know I'm here. For whatever you need or want. Heck, I'll even help you find him if that's what you want."

Her head tilts and she fixes him with a strange look, green eyes vivid, "He's in a witness protective program. That's where he is."

"Yeah, and I'm saying that I'll help you no matter what."

Her eyes turn soft; "We're not going to tamper with a witness program just because I feel," she stops, eyes watering up. "I've said my goodbyes, and he's said his. It's just – I miss him and I worry about him so much."

He nods, understanding the dilemma, "You worry about?"

"I worry he's going to run away, I worry there'll be no one who understands him. I worry he'll think it's my fault this is happening. I worry someone will hurt him – I worry whoever's sending all those letters will find him anyway."

He tightens his arms around her, her eyes avoiding his. He kisses the edges of her lips and finds her eyes once again on him, pain vibrant.

"Rusty knows it isn't your fault – he knows you want him safe and he knows you love him. He's going to fine, protected," she gives a small nod and he continues, "We'll nail whoever's sending all these threats and Stroh will be put away for life on death row and you'll see him again, Sharon."

She smiles again, a little sad hue to it. "You think so."

"I do."

She turns her body fully around, facing him and tangling her legs with his.

"You would do anything?" she asks, her voice sounding odd again.

He nods.

She moves closer, their chests pressed against each other now, a hand on his hip. He thinks maybe that she's not used to another human being declaring they'd do anything for her; he thinks it might be a novel thing.

She presses her lips against his.

He kisses her back, hands at the back of her head instead.

It feels familiar and yet novel.

…


	2. into darkness

…

Curious, he feels both at home in her bedroom and yet he feels like a stranger. The linens are soft and expensive, the curtains thick and heavy – they throw the room into an almost complete darkness. His eyes adjust to the darkness though and he's able to make out contours and outlines and yet those shapes seem to be shadows that move, slithering along in the dark and he's feeling uneasy. Darkness seems to come alive within a breath and he's wondering what hides in the corners and nooks – he knows, rationally, it's only his overactive imagination and yet he lies absolutely still, listening and worrying.

There's a scent in the room that reminds him of her, understated but there; it's the same scent he catches when he nuzzles his nose into her hair, arm possessively draped across her waist, hand on her hip. She's motionless but for the slow rise and fall of her chest – her breathing however is too regulated for her to be asleep.

There's a tautness in her body no amount of talking will be able to flatten out; there's a reason his Glock is within reach and that hers are on the nightstand. There's a reason darkness seems threatening and that he's holding his breath, trying to catch the sound of what lies in between time flickering away.

He runs a thumb along her skin, down her hipbone, wondering if the breath she holds in is because of him, wondering why she shies away from touch – but he cannot change the way he feels, cannot change the fact that he wants to swathe her in cotton and keep her safe.

She moves slightly, turning further on her side away from him, his hand sliding over the curve of her waist till it lands on her mattress.

It's not a rejection outright, he knows, but he also thinks she might be overwhelmed with events, overwhelmed by his presence.

"I can sleep on the sofa," he tells her in a soft voice and he means it; he won't mind – as long as she's comfortable.

"No, it's not that," her leg brushes past his, lingers and then settles against his calf, "I want you right here – just, I'm feeling a bit – oh I don't know."

"Unsettled?" he guesses.

"It was all for nothing," she sighs and he hears the undertone of anger in her voice, "If I'd just fought a bit more, a bit longer."

He's not sure he understands what she's saying, her line of thought far away from his, "What was for nothing?"

"Putting him in witness protection, forcing him into protective custody – it was all for nothing."

"Oh," he understands now, her anger suddenly comprehensible – she's angry at herself, blaming herself for the fact that the boy is no longer with her.

"What – are they going to put me away too?" her voice rises with a vehement volume and she turns around and he thinks she's staring at him intensely, a puff of warm air hitting him when she speaks again, "He would have been safe with me," she sounds distraught, "I would have been able to protect him just as easily as a damn program – why they could have put a unified protection detail on us, that would have been sufficient."

He estimates the outline of her face and shoulder in the dark, tentatively finding a bare shoulder above her linen, his fingers tracing soft patterns on it, "We had no way of knowing the creep would send you a letter too, Sharon – it was the right choice then. You said it yourself; safety first."

She disagrees with a discontent hum, "Everything's changed now and he's god knows where. Safety is more than a new name and a different city. Safety is knowing you belong – it's having an anchor," her voice shakes.

"I know," he whispers. There's really nothing to say, nothing that will sound comforting anyway.

He moves closer, holding his breath until he feels her slide into his embrace, hands flat on his back and her face against his shoulder, hips against his own.

It's peculiar but even given the newly founded intimacy between them he finds her to be estranged in this moment, a creature he hasn't met before – strangely enough he's aware it's how she's coping with the situation and he only falls even more in love. It's a desperate love though. He feels slightly insufficient, not sure if he's handling the situation in the best possible way, not really sure what she wants from him – he's a bit terrified of taking a wrong step or saying the wrong thing. It's so new and precarious this thing between them, not even old enough to warrant a definition.

The only thing he knows for sure is that he's full of fear, the prospect of her in danger a violent concept within him.

He's never imagined the creep would write to her too. The letter and its details are vivid to him in the dark, flashing in front of his eyes in bright lights, resounding in his ears as if someone is reading the contents out aloud to him – the threat that's so explicit it makes him coil together in anger, tension boiling just under the surface of his skin.

Her lips land on his in the darkness and he kisses her back with equal fervor, wanting something to flatten away these tendrils of fear within him – wanting his anger to be substituted with something less violent.

He's more comfortable with touch anyway – words are too tenuous. He can't really say anything that will comfort her but he can soothe with hands, with his lips; it's the easy way out but oh god, her lips are purposeful against his.

…

_It's a dark rush surging through him; tendrils of fright so stark within him he's shaking, dread on the back of his tongue so full he thinks he's going to vomit any second now and a burst of inexplicable anger that forces him to push down the speeder with more force than usual, his car skidding around a corner and going most assuredly above the speed limit. _

_Her apartment complex looms through his window shield and it's as intimidating as the phone call he received from her fifteen minutes earlier. The place is unfamiliar in much the same way he's unfamiliar with this whole situation – he's never been to her place before and he's uncertain about a lot of things. The car is barely parked before he rushes out, car door slamming with a resounding bang – he almost forgets to lock it in his hurry. _

_There's only one thing on his mind and it's Sharon; Sharon calling him, her voice sounding frightfully flat, saying she's received a letter. Her nonchalant voice telling him there's no hurry, she's already called it in, telling him she's already checked her whole apartment through and that she's locked her door. It doesn't soothe him at all; it only hastens the taste of fear until it's in every cell in his body. _

_He knows she's not a rookie and that she can take of herself – she said she had her Glock out – but it's not rationality that guides him but something far more animate, the image of what someone could do to her more vivid in his mind than the knowledge that she's a sharpshooter and able to defend herself._

_The elevator is too slow for his liking; he's out of it before the doors have fully opened, running down the corridor till he reaches 1109. He knocks and with a clear voice, "It's me – Andy," he pauses, then "I mean, it's lieutenant Flynn."_

_There's a moment of nothing but then he hears the click of the door being unlocked and then she's opening it, dressed in an oversized black cardigan, the hem just above bare knees and her hair looking out of sorts. There's a strangely calm look in the depths of her eyes and her Glock safely in her right hand – the safety's on. _

_He looks at the gun, "Your safety's on," his voice sounds angry and reproachful but he doesn't have the time or the energy to care._

_She opens the door fully and he enters, watching her closing the door again, locking it – her expression is unreadable and he falters a bit._

"_I'll take the safety off when it's necessary."_

"_Necessary," his voice hitches. He wants to tell her it's fucking necessary now – that the circumstance fucking calls for it now but there's something holding him back. It's strange, he rarely holds back._

"_So I don't end up shooting someone I'm not supposed to shoot just because I'm nervous."_

_Her eyes land on him, hard in their color and he thinks she covers her nervousness remarkably well; not even a flicker of it as he peruses her expression, not even a flicker of trembling hands or anything that would indicate she is apprehensive about receiving a threatening letter. _

"_Where's the letter?"_

_She points in the direction of a work table, her computer closed next to it. He neatly gets rid of his shoes, lining them up next to a pair of black heels; he follows her into her home, eyes wanting to wander her place curiously but he's too fidgety to really take in everything. _

_She goes into what he assumes is the kitchen, rattling with something while he approaches the table, an envelope with her name and address on it next to a letter. He takes the letter with the edge of his jacket sleeve conscious of not putting his own prints on it; he opens it up and reads, the _Dear Sharon_ forcing his heart to gallop – it only deteriorates, the contents of the letter not in any way subtle. It's overt in its threats. He feels bile launch its way up his throat, growing and thickening. _

"_Do you want tea or coffee?" she asks him from the kitchen, the absurdity of the question when he's reading the letter too much for him, her voice still that flat, composed tone. _

"_You've read this?" he growls._

"_Yes," she answers, voice still neutral. She's ignoring his anger, his indignation – which is only really a cover for the fear and futility he feels. _

"_You've called it in?"_

"_Of course, just like I told you over the phone – we'll have forensics look it over tomorrow. There's nothing more to do about it tonight. I'll talk it over with Taylor tomorrow."_

_He shakes his head, setting down the letter, feeling as if it's leaving a taint on him somehow. He turns and finds her standing with arms crossed, her gun gone and an expression of impatience now. _

_He moves towards her, "That's just sick," he gives a nod towards the letter on the table. _

_She nods agreeing but there's once again a certain detachment in her. She's able to distance herself from it whereas he seeks the emotions it brings up in him. _

"_You alright?"_

_She shrugs, her mouth opens but nothing comes out. _

"_I'm fine with tea," he says, voice soft now and he sees a flicker of relief in her eyes, she turns and he thinks she's glad to be able to do something, even if it's as menial as making a cup of tea for him. _

_He follows her into the kitchen, standing at the counter and watching her. Her place is soft and serene he thinks and if it was not for the circumstance he might even feel at home; he's too edgy to contemplate the colors she's chosen or the wallpapers, too occupied to admire the way she's decorated the interior or the way there's something cozy yet classy about her furniture. _

_She's watching the kettle waiting for it to boil, her back to him. It's ridiculous, he thinks, moving closer. He knows she can feel him, her breath hitching, as he aligns his body with hers, standing flush up against her. He brings his arms around her, the palms flat on the counter. She hums, the sound half annoyed, half content, when he lands his mouth on her neck._

_She turns around within his arms, her mouth finding his instead – a hard kiss. _

_It's only been two days since they kissed for the first time; it feels like a lifetime._

…

_They stagger to her sofa, attached to each other and having a hard time letting go, even if it's to safely navigate their way. She's more vocal than the last time, tones caught in her throat, barely escaping before she whimpers again, lips vibrating – her hands around the front of his jacket, clinging and hanging unto him. Her lips scourge his, devouring and frantic, a flavor of almost frenzy in their wake. _

_He's not faring any better, hands under her cardigan and t-shirt, her skin like adhesive to his fingers, the need to feel her like this overpowering. He maneuvers them around, his arms around her waist and he sits down on the sofa pulling her along, her legs on either side of him. She ends up sitting in his lap, their lips still engaged in kissing, hands roaming to a tune of their own. _

_She hums into his mouth and he grunts back, hands at the back of her nape, cradling her head, tilting her head to the side. _

_One of her hands lands on his chest, flat against his pectoral, the other's possessively in his hair. _

_She lets go of the kiss, her breath hot and hurried against his throat, her cheek resting against his jaw. She crumbles his jacket in her hands, fists around the material and he gathers she's trying to let go of something. _

"_I want you," she mumbles into his throat, her voice tingling. The words leave him tingling too, her skin hot - she shifts her hips and he squirms able to feel the pressure against his groin. He groans his answer into her ear, hands skimming down her back, gripping her ass. _

_They both reach for his belt at the same time, fingers intertwining trying to unbuckle it – there's a brief but evident smile in her eyes when they take longer with the buckle, their hands colliding – he smiles back, glad for a trickle of levity. _

_She raises herself up and he manages to slide his pants down, just enough to free himself from his underwear. Her hand goes around his cock, sliding down his shaft and going up again, her lips on his again, full in their kiss. It's tight and he's becoming fuller and fuller, her hand warm, her lips on his tingling like electricity. _

_She pumps him, lips sliding against his, a hum following another hum from her throat. It's almost unbearable, almost unbelievable he thinks – she licks a path to his ear, "You like that," a husky little tone and he's absolutely certain she's another creature in this moment, her breath echoing in his ear, tingling through his body till it coils even more in his groin. He buries a hand in her hair again, forcing her lips back to his; back to searing away the flesh, searing nerve endings and trying to contain everything he feels in a kiss. _

_They become lost in the kiss, her hand suddenly still around him, her body falling closer into his. He doesn't mind the leisureliness, lingering in the feel of lips – bottom and upper, in between teeth, in between lips. _

_When she bites down a little hard he knows she's impatient and so he helps her discard the cardigan, his hands wander up and under her t-shirt, under the restraint of her underwear, pulling at the material. They get rid of her underwear in a hurry and she sits back down, guiding him in, her eyes closing. _

_She sighs into his mouth, lips barely meeting, hovering close and breathing in each other. He gets rid of his jacket, throwing it over the sofa. Her hands cling to his t-shirt then, moving against him. She rocks against him and he catches the sides of her waist under her t-shirt, fingers digging into her flesh, grounding himself to her. She arches against him, his lips lands on her throat – he sucks in a little mound of flesh, keeping it between his teeth; she grips his biceps when he bites down, a strangled voice leaving her mouth. _

_They remain like this, grounding against each other, up and down; her thighs warm on each side of him, her mouth close to his, half-open. _

_It's too slow, however – too languid. Even with the pad of his finger against her clit, even with a caress up under her t-shirt, teasing nipples. _

_They smile into a slow kiss, both aware of it. Her smile's shy when she leans back and he thinks it might be the softest smile he's ever seen. Her hands go around his head, at the back of his nape and she pulls him with her, her back landing on the sofa instead, legs wrapped around him in a tight hold. _

_For a second he simply stares. She's beautiful, eyes inviting in their green hue, her cheeks with a red flush and her lips part in anticipation. He wants to tell her he finds her utterly beautiful but he thinks it can wait, her hands beckoning on his back, her lips moving towards his own. _

…

_His skin is a conduit, blood pumping and roaring within him, warmth consuming him. He's sweating, perspiration clinging to him in the same way her hands glide down his back, trying to hold onto him; his hands white around her thighs, a strong hold. He's uncomfortably warm, beads dripping down his back, forming on his upper lip; she doesn't seem to care, her body presses more urgently against his, her lips more aggressively attach to his. He can taste the small moans on her lips that tell him to continue – her legs tightening, a hand briefly in his hair, along the side of his head. _

_He's dripping water on her, feels the way it smears into their skin, into their t-shirts, sweat feeling like adhesive between their bodies. Skin sticking together and sliding against skin, clinging together not only by sweat but also he thinks by the notion of becoming lost in the moment, lost in desire and pleasure. It's an odd concept they have yet to remove the last articles of clothing but he thinks it's the matter of time; it will take time and right now he has no time to give to anything but trusting into her, holding her close. _

_It's frantic – in that sole approach where it's only surely about release; only about coming. It's a shared goal apparently, fucking seeming more like a struggle between their bodies, her nails grinding into his skin like claws, lips bruising and her pelvis meeting his, heels digging into his ass._

_He's panting and sweating and oh god it's not enough; he needs more, needs it quicker – his hands roughly bringing her thighs up higher, thrusting into her with more vehemence, breathing heavily into her neck, burying his face in her neck. Shit, he hasn't fucked someone like this in forever – it's reminds him of desolation and yet he does not really feel despondent; it feels like release in a strange form. _

_She mewls, groans – whispers something that sounds remotely like 'oh fuck.'_

_She comes, her eyes closing and her fingers digging even more painfully into the skin of his back; he thinks she might have broken through. _

_He continues, skin slapping against skin, a high-pitched moan telling him she's on the brink of it being too much; he follows her a minute after, collapsing on top. His t-shirt is wet and he's not sure what happened to his pants; her breaths are loud in his ear, his head buried at the crook of her neck. _

_Her arms go around him, legs as well, holding him – a hand softly going into damp hair. _

…

_He's not sure how long they lie like this, breathing heavily, warmth slowly beginning to coalesce into a cooling dampness, seeping into their t-shirts and skin. _

"_Can you stay?" she asks him, the words spoken into his skin, her breathing returning more quickly to normal than his. _

"_Of course," he pants – there's nothing that will make him leave but he cannot tell her that; hell if she threw him out he would stay in his car in the parking garage and survey her place throughout the night. _

"_God, you're heavy," she gives a small, somehow nervous, chuckle. And he thinks this is new as well – it is for him anyway; aftermath. There's something both serene and yet nervous about lying like this with her._

_He sits back up, careful of not landing an elbow in her stomach; there are small tendrils of dark hair along her temple, damp like his, her eyes curiously wide and her mouth still slightly apart. She tucks her t-shirt down from where's it's crumbled on her upper abdomen, trying to get it to fit back down over her hips; she smiles self-consciously, eyes quickly leaving his. _

_She breathes a sigh and he finds his eyes glued to her, taking in the way her lashes flutter, the way her lips flicker upwards in a brief smile, the way her fingers settle on her thighs, keeping the t-shirt down; she sits up as well, her eyes on the darkness outside her window. _

_He tucks an errand strand of hair behind her ear, catching her eyes and the darkness in them; a little buried fear he thinks – he lets his thumb caress her cheek, soft. He kisses her, brief and soft, watching her eyes connect with his when he retreats, "C'mon, let's get out of these," he pulls at his own t-shirt. _

_She nods._

"_Everything will work out tomorrow," he says to her, not sure if that's a lie or not._

_She nods again, hand finding his, trembling a bit in his. She's nervous after all – he had known because he's nervous as hell and she's just better at controlling her emotions._

_She follows him up from the sofa, her hand still nestling warmly in his. He tightens his hold, her fingers in between his, tugging and watching her. _

…

_They take turns showering. _

_He stands awkwardly outside the glass window into her shower stall, watching the outline of her, his t-shirt now uncomfortable, sweat having turned it cold and clingy. He takes it off and then throws it in what he assumes is her laundry basket; it only becomes worse, standing naked in her bathroom. He wonders whether she would welcome him if he joined her – or shoot him. She practically fled to the stall the moment they came into the bathroom, the imprint of her hand in his still warm; he does not mind giving her privacy, it's not that. It's just his eyes have nowhere to land but on the glass stall or the bathroom mirror; there's something even more awkward about staring at himself naked in the mirror – instead he stares at the glass, the sound of running water calming. _

_She's quick though, out before he can make up his mind, a towel wrapped around her body. She pushes him into the shower stall – tells him to join her in bed and then she's gone, like a wisp of smoke quickly evaporating into invisible air. He thinks maybe she's a bit afraid of too much contact, and he really doesn't mind. _

_The warm spray of water is a blessing, even more so as it washes away exertion as well as anxiety. _

_It will be alright, he reassures himself, nothing will befall her. He makes a vow to himself; he'll make sure she remains safe, no matter what. He knows how to keep people safe. _

…

They lie breathless in the aftermath, her body curled around his, cheek on his chest. It was quiet this time, not at all like what it had been like in her living room earlier. He thinks it's the dark and silence; it encroaches on them and covers everything in a sense of being removed from the outside world.

He tangles a hand in her hair, turns her head upwards so he can fasten his lips on hers – it's a slow kiss, soft and indulgent. She ends it with a little hum. She rests her head against the crook of his neck, her hair tickling. He caresses her shoulder, her skin soft beneath touch.

"You got here in no time at all," she comments, her voice sounding sleepy, "I'd barely put my phone down when you knocked."

"I was ready to flash my badge if anyone stopped me," he tells her, knowing she will be equally amused and horrified. He can feel her lips move against his throat, probably parting in a smile.

"Oh, you're incorrigible."

He hums in agreement, "Says so on every disciplinary file."

She smiles against his throat again and then utters a quiet raspy little "yes."

He wraps his legs more profoundly around hers, a soft kiss to the top of her head.

"I'm glad you called me," he says after a short moment of silence.

She nuzzles her nose into his skin, not saying anything. He smiles – he had always imagined he would be the one to be most emotionally-repressed of the two of them and yet she's the one who's having a hard time expressing herself.

After a while though she speaks, "I nearly didn't call you. It felt too, I don't know. I'm used to handling everything by myself," she pauses, her hand tracing up along the sides of his chest, "but I want you here, I like knowing you are here. It's comforting."

"I'm used to being alone too," he tells her, " I know how you feel."

She hums again, "It feels strange, doesn't it?" she pauses and then elaborates, "This whole thing, between us. Absurd, even. I'm not sure what to think."

"It does," he agrees because it feels strange indeed, "I like to pretend we're just Sharon and Andy – that's easy, you know. Everything else complicates it."

She looks up then and catches his lips in another kiss, soft and languid. She presses a soft kiss to his throat when they break apart, then whispers, "I don't mind pretending," she pauses, her breath hot against his neck, fingers playing around on the side of his chest, "Andy." She has a way of saying his name that makes his spine tingle, in a way that convey a form of adherence between them.

He nuzzles the skin of her shoulder, trying to contain to urge to kiss the top of her head again. They lie in the dark then, both breathing slowly – fingers skimming skin in an unhurried rhythm. He easily falls asleep to the sound of her breathing, her body against his – shadows and letters partly forgotten in the feeling of her body next to his, warm and safe.

…


	3. into comfort

…

**/into comfort/**

…

She has attained her own personal shadow – an animate, articulate shadow that follows her everywhere, hovering just within vision. It's a presence that's compact to her; he's breathing close to her – his frame heavy in the air near her; at her shoulder, at her heels. A shadow with brown eyes that focusses on her exclusively, a soft hand calmly lingering on her spine, guiding her; he lends support even when he doesn't speak, aware of every little miniscule thing that happens to her, aware of every little miniscule thing she does.

She should mind; it should feel downright condescending and the prospect of him 'guarding' her should in some way feel demeaning. Yet, in a curious turn of events she has found his proximity to be a comforting factor in her life since the first letter. There's something reassuring about having him close, her own shadow, there to rely on, there to talk to – there to witness what is happening around her.

Yet everything changed this morning, she reflects. There's an undercurrent in her that feels too strong, gripping her and pulling her under – she knows the reason for the feeling and yet she cannot fathom why fear turns to annoyance the moment it leaves her body. Rationally she knows it's the effect of feeling powerless that makes her behave differently – and yet, she cannot bring herself to find comfort in his presence today. She's on edge and he's not helping. She feels small and unbalanced – feels panic that threatens to burst into something even more terrifying.

So when he positions himself outside the women's bathroom, just outside their murder room, arms crossed and waiting for her impatiently, it breaks something in her and out comes something dark with the potential for anger.

She briefly wonders why he does not proceed to stalk into the bathroom ahead of her to make sure there's no stranger lurking in a stall, ready to slit her throat. She wouldn't put it past him. There's a hard look in the depths of his eyes that reminds her of steel – it reminds her of someone who's seconds away from doing something reckless.

She stalks into the bathroom by herself, closing the door behind her with a more resounding bang than she would under normal circumstances. It's a peculiar thing; she rarely resorts to slamming doors. She strides into the bathroom, stopping at the sinks and mirrors, bracing herself on the counter, palms flat on the surface.

She feels estranged from herself, that's the reason everything feels absurd. Her life is stuck in a transient phase between horror and happiness. Funny how in barely a week the world can change so irrevocably.

She looks at herself in the mirror, trying to find small signs of everything she feels under the surface of her skin; there are lines around her mouth, around her eyes – strained, trembling lines. Is it anger or repressed fear? There's a brittle look in her eyes, a faded green-grey color – or maybe she's projecting her inner being onto a mere, idiotic reflection. She doesn't know.

Everything is beyond her control and it is unimaginable how much everything feels distorted. Her life might be in danger – and all she can think about is how's Rusty faring, whether he is alright or not, whether he's going to school somewhere or not – whether he's doing his homework or not. She's too focused on finding out who has been sending all these threatening letters but there are no clues really. It frightens her that the person responsible for the letters is doing everything to disguise his or her identity – the intention behind that little clue frightens her. Then there's the dark nagging doubt that she'll never see the boy again – twisted self-doubt that it could have been prevented somehow this chaos – that, in the end, it's her own fault. She should have realized something was wrong – she should have done more.

She huffs out a breath, tries to inhale deep and slow.

What frightens her even more is the fact her lieutenant – Andy she quickly amends – has become suddenly wholly intertwined with her personal life; she sometimes forgets everything when he's near – and he's practically near her throughout every waking hour. He's even closer in sleep.

She sighs again, not focused on the reflection of herself in the mirror anymore.

They have been exchanging anxious, ambivalent looks throughout the entire day, something holding them back as if they both know that starting up a conversation would be catastrophic. They might as well talk now, catastrophe or not. It's been festering since early morning.

She sticks her head out the door, a deliberately hand on her hip; "C'mon," she says to him, her voice low.

When he doesn't move, a look of confusion in his warm brown eyes, she shakes her head and elaborates, "You're following me everywhere, I don't see you being shy about a little toilet. C'mon."

He sets in motion, uncrossing his arms and following her, looking out of place when he saunters inside and closes the door behind him. He briefly puts a hand around his neck, seeming a bit out of place. Then he crosses his arms and regards her silently. He's nervous she thinks; not because it's the women's bathroom but because she's doing something unexpected. It shouldn't be a surprise; she's been doing nothing but unexpected things for the last week – if anything he should be used to it by now seeing he is the reason she's doing unexpected things.

"Relax – there are only us in here," she tells him.

He nods hesitantly and then there's a flicker of something else that flits through his expression; his lips quirk and he drawls, "Just for the record, you dragged me in here – in case anyone asks."

She purses her lips – on any other day she would find him amusing.

They're finding it a bit difficult to differentiate between what is work and what is private, the two seeming to be one and the same; that and it's barely been a week of this thing between them. A little week and it's been a turbulent, chaotic week driven by – if she's honest – grief and desire.

"You've got to stop it."

"Stop what?" he crosses his arms more sharply, defensive position becoming more rigid. She's not thinking clearly, impulsiveness forcing her to blunt ahead; she should have started this in another way, more tactfully – she should use a softer voice and not sound so exasperated.

"Andy," she starts again, his name soft on her tongue and she makes sure her voice is gentle and not reproachful, "you're following me around like a bodyguard, only without the seemingly distance a bodyguard would put into it; you're being quite obvious."

"Obvious?" he tastes the word, eyebrows knitting together, "about what?"

She shakes her head – maybe she should have used a different wording. She sighs; this is not going to go well. They have both been on edge since morning and she thinks it's only going to deteriorate.

"You're the one insisting I follow you into toilets," he counters, a wry smirk on the corner of his lips, "how's that for obvious, huh."

Funny but she feels herself becoming more annoyed – it's probably not his fault but she would like to imagine it is. She's sure he's trying to alleviate the atmosphere and yet she cannot bring herself to smile now. Another conundrum she can add to the ever growing list of her life turning upside down.

She approaches him, crossing her arms before she makes her point angrily with a finger to his chest, "I think it's safe to assume I'm not going to be assaulted here what with the building teeming with police officers. And I think it's a rational conclusion that someone's bound to notice there's something between the two of us if you continue to follow me everywhere I go. I don't' want people to know," she stops and gives him a long look, "I don't want to complicate things further."

He shakes his head in a little show of disagreement, his mouth becoming a firm line, "Have you considered the person or persons responsible for the letters might be law enforcement, huh? Have you considered the fact that people from outside easily can gain access into this building – hell it doesn't take a lot to waltz in here; simply take the elevator up," his voice turns even more gruff and caustic, brown eyes narrow and there's an undertone in his expression that's new to her, "And what do you mean by more complicated?"

She averts her eyes – she's not ready to talk about things being complicated. She takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself down and then she looks up again. She notices the way his eyes have darkened even further, his body leaning closer to her – there's something intense about his anger.

"Listen, Sharon - no one's going to suspect a goddamn thing, okay. It's not like I'm kissing you blatantly in front of everyone – heck, I've barely touched you. Now, I know you feel unsettled and I know you find me obnoxious. Believe it or not but we – the whole team – actually care about you and we simply want to prevent something from happening to you. I understand that you can protect yourself – I just want a little extra protection on you. Those threats – they are real and they have crossed the line. The content in those letters are violent and explicit; you know that."

She averts her eyes from him again, a burning feeling that usually precipitates tears at the corners of her eyes. She tries to force herself to not cry; she cannot cry now, not in front of him again – not when they are obviously having a quarrel of some fashion. She tries to breathe in deep, tries to think of anything but the emotion she knows there's behind his concern.

"Look, I had a talk with Provenza, the day after you got the first letter. We agreed I'd follow you around, keep an eye on you, make sure nothing happened to you."

She's still looking at the wall behind his shoulder.

He talks again, "We've done nothing inappropriate at work – unless you count today with you dragging me in here," he gives a brief chuckle and she briefly feels the corners of her mouth curve. She looks up, swept in by the raw look in his eyes.

"I'm just keeping an eye out for you – until we catch the scumbag who wants to," he sighs, eyes darkening again as he leans in closer, inches from her face, "and I quote from one of those letters you got, watch you bleed."

She sighs.

"You've discussed my protection without my presence?" there's a little vibration of annoyance in her tone and she lets it blossom, feeling she has a right to know what others decide to do about her freedom.

"Sure, we bugged your place as well," he retorts back, voice filled to the brim with sarcasm.

She rolls her eyes.

He elaborates, voice back to a more soft timbre, "I merely had a concerned conversation with Provenza – seeing as I was ready to go ballistic about you being in danger – there's nothing more to it."

"Oh," she replies, feeling suddenly light.

There's a little moment of silence before he starts speaking again – she thinks he's in an unusual chatty mood today.

"You don't want people to know about our after-hours activities – heck I don't want people to know; it's inconsequential and frankly I only care about your wellbeing. The way I see it, there's nothing to worry about. We just have to focus on you being safe – and catching the bastard."

She nods, "I appreciate everything – I really do – but you've got to give me a little space. I need a little space."

"Space?" he's vividly angry now, voice going up volumes, "I can't give you space. I give you space and someone's gonna end up slitting your throat."

"Andy, you're not listening."

"I'm listening alright," he points his finger at her, "you're being difficult and mule headed." The accusation rings clear and he's glaring at her now; it surprises her.

She sputters, feeling defensive as well, "What! You're the one being," she leans closer, her voice lowering, "difficult and mule headed."

She narrows her eyes at him, watches as he leans closer, towering over her when they stand this close.

She should have foreseen it – it's the natural progression in hindsight – but it surprises her when he smashes his lips against hers, a kiss that's quite unlike any she can remember; it's not rough but powered by something else – not anger per se. Passion, she thinks, passion and anger – and it surprises her completely. His hands are in her hair, his body pressed into her and they are moving, backwards, her back against a toilet stall before she can think clearly – her own hands under his suit, attached to the buckle of his pants to keep herself from falling.

He groans into the kiss, his fingers more firmly in her hair and oh god, it burns and tingles – it sweeps through her body in bolts.

Moreover it hurts.

It hurts – but it's not any physical place on her body –it's not the roots of her hair. It hurts inside – and she feels like crying again. Instead she mumbles an incomprehensible moan into his lips, holding on tighter to him, afraid to let go, afraid to find herself alone.

It hurts and she feels as if she's falling.

…

_It's been five days now since the first letter. It's been four mornings of waking up to the feel of someone lying close to her in the same bed, four nights of lying even closer. She's gotten so used to being herself that the presence of him in her home is both a nuisance and a comfort; his presence is dense, evident in every little corner of her home, evident in the air around her – so different from the presence Rusty occupied. It's not that she minds; she asked him here and has yet to tell him to go home – she wants him here. Maybe that's the thing that frightens her. What frightens her more is the relatively seamless routine it has become after five days; how perfectly natural it has become to find him making her coffee in the mornings, a shy almost boyish look on his face as he brings her a cup of coffee in bed. _

_They have yet to find out where they belong in this relationship and what it consists of; hesitance and shyness seeming to guard them the moment it's not dark. He's seems to think about everything, second guessing and holding back when he brings her the coffee; she thinks he wants to give her a little good morning kiss but it's too domestic; so instead he kisses her temple – it ends up being far more domestic than a simple kiss on her lips._

_Funny, they do not function around each other in daylight but the moment they're in her bed at night it's natural to lie close to him, natural to feel his hands on her, natural to kiss him. It has become almost natural to lie in his arms, to let her touch linger on him, to feel his heartbeat beneath her palm, steady and comforting. _

_She wakes, on the fifth morning, to the feel of him rising from the bed; she's on her stomach far on the other side of bed. Even if it's become a routine it's still weird to lie next to someone after an eternity of being only herself in bed; it's even stranger when she wakes up and finds him spooning her or when she wakes to a hand on her waist. She thinks it will take some time getting used to it – not that she minds it. She actually finds it wonderful – if she retracts everything else in her life; if she forgets for a brief moment that Rusty's gone and that there is someone out there threatening her life as well as Rusty's, then it really is wonderful to have him here with her. _

_She hears him trying to be silent; she lies still. There's something comforting about hearing him getting up in the mornings. He's on his way to the kitchen, to start the coffee machine. She listens to him put on a pair of pajamas pants, then sneak out her bedroom door. _

_She smiles into her mattress, trying to contain the way her insides seem to tingle. _

_She stretches, arches her back and holds a hand over a yawn; it's only 6 am and what she wouldn't give for just an hour more but it's Monday and they have work to go to – in separate cars and arriving at different intervals. _

…

_She's sitting up in her bed, pillow behind her, eyes on her phone as she checks her mail; her eyes go up and she watches as he comes into her bedroom, bearing two coffee cups and a silly smile. It's a smile she's becoming attached to she thinks, not sure if that's a good or bad thing._

"_Morning," he rumbles, his voice hoarse._

_She smiles back, her lips curving out of their own accord, "Good morning."_

_She wonders if her smile is as silly as his – she wonders if he feels as silly as she does. _

_She takes one of the coffee cups from his hands, feels the mattress dip as he sits down next to her; she's positioned two pillows for him – it's been forever since she's done this; sitting in bed drinking morning coffee with someone besides herself. And now it's five mornings of sitting like this – she can get used to it, easily. _

_She smiles into her cup, disguising it. She sips, the bitter liquid an essential welcome. _

_His hand land on her thigh, and she can become used to this as well. She knows he's looking at her now – she looks into the cup, hair obscuring her view. _

_His hand trail up and down, fingers in a caress till they slide up under her nightgown; she breathes out slowly – afraid to breathe too much. _

_She hears the clink of him setting his cup on the nightstand; she takes another sip just to have something to do – he hasn't done this the other mornings. She can feel his body moving closer to hers and his hand going around to her inner thigh._

_She turns her head and his lips descend on hers, slow and warm – she sighs, pleasure soft beneath her skin – she fumbles for the nightstand on her side, putting her own coffee cup down on it as well; her hands find a new purpose on his shoulders, turning her torso around. _

_Yes, lips more insistent, more pressure; and still there's this fuzzy silly feeling inside her, bursting and yearning to rush into something more intense._

_They slide down the mattress, one of his hands at the nape of her head and the other on the inside of her thigh, her nightgown being pushed up suddenly; he's showering her with small kisses, repeatedly on her lips and she's having a hard time breathing – he kisses her nose and his fingers go under her underwear – her breath hitches loudly when one of his fingers slides in between her labia._

_She opens her eyes, looks up to find his are centered exclusively on her face – it's a warm brown color; it draws her in and she wonders whether this soft look is something she's ever seen before. _

_He kisses her nose again and it tingles, "You know, you're extraordinarily beautiful."_

_She's not used to this either, feeling her cheeks blush – she diverts her eyes for a brief second. _

_He kisses her cheek instead, the right one, the pad of a finger lazily on her clit now and it's that soft, fuzzy feeling again. _

"_There's something about your eyes," he whispers into her ear, continuing, pressure still tenderly on her with his fingers, lips that slide past her jaw and kiss their way down her throat, "The color exquisite, you know."_

_His voice has a rough, raw quality and she likes it; likes the way it rumbles under her skin and makes her spine tingle, how it goes to her groin where it curls and coils._

"_Pristine skin," he says, voice tingling against the skin of her neck, he dips down and his lips go down one collarbone, teeth and mouth now pulling the strings of her nightgown down her arms; the neckline goes down over her breasts; "wonderful, beautiful breasts," he manages to whisper to her skin before he sucks one nipple into his mouth; she arches her back a bit, a strangled little noise in her throat. It sounds nothing like her but still it escapes and it resonates in her bedroom. His index finger flicks across her clit now, more pressure, sliding down and getting moisture before it slides up again, rubbing against her. _

_She opens her mouth, breath leaving in a perturbed flow; she uncurls her hands around the bed linen, needing some of the tension in her body to leave._

_His tongue flicks on her nipple, his teeth nips and his lips massage; she feels winded and warm – she pushes her underwear down her legs, the pause in his fingers against her almost painful but she needs to be rid of the restraint; one ankle is out of her underwear and it's enough, her legs open again and his hand quickly land on her again._

_She whimpers._

_He lets go of her breast to look up, "and I do enjoy all your small hums and moans."_

_She hums in response, arching her head back and closing her eyes; there's just the feel of him on her body and she likes it – she's not yet ready to gaze too much at his brown eyes, especially not when he's being this affectionate with touch and talk._

_Then he moves to her other breast, mouth still warm, lips full around her nipple, the shiver that runs through her a wonderful feeling. _

_His fingers slide down her labia, two fingers going into her, out again in a slow caress, in again – they rub her inner walls when they slide out now and it's liquid electricity, her nerves frayed raw; wet fingers now easily rubbing her clit, back and forth, up and down and she's so close already, so close she's silently begging for more, her legs falling more and more apart, a hand holding onto a fistful of her linen again._

_His teeth go around a nipple, sharp edges tingling and scraping – one of his hands go along her cheek and she wonders why he's this good at multitasking because his other hand is being absolutely divine down between her legs; she's so goddamn close she's moaning more loudly, more rapidly than she remembers having done before – it's past her conscious control, simply incoherent words leaving her mouth, caught low in her throat, high in her throat and she's come to the point where it doesn't really matter. _

_His fingers leave her clit again, slide into her instead, the same little upwards curving of his fingers along her inner walls; his teeth even more rough against her breasts – she thinks he's going to leave marks – hand going into her hair, a thumb tenderly across her temple._

_She moans high when he touches her clit again, moans even higher when even wetter fingers slide rapidly against the bud, fast and just the right amount of pressure – she's not ready but it washes over her, tension so rapid and hard through her body she cannot even scream, her insides feel on fire._

_It continues, and continues, her walls throbbing, her legs straining and trembling, her mind fuzzy and hazy – and oh god, he continues, his fingers sliding in and out of her, his mouth continuing upwards and pulling her into a kiss – a long kiss she barely registers when he once again puts pressure on her clit._

_She's barely over her first orgasm and he's lining up for another apparently, his smile against her lips not to miss._

_He brings his mouth to her ear, breath warm and she cannot really focus on anything but the almost painful feeling of his fingers against her, rubbing and sliding – and oh it's almost unbearable pleasure that surges through her, surges of higher voltage._

"_I like making you come," he whispers in her ear and she can only agree with him, another moan leaving her lips as he press firmly down on her clit and she comes again; hard. It's almost too much. _

…

_She feels like jelly, out of breath and eyes almost closing sleepily; the feeling of being sated heavy in her bones. _

_His small chuckles rumble against her skin, his head resting on her chest, hands more safely on the side of her waist, one of his legs between hers. She thinks he feels rather proud of himself in this moment; not that she's going to correct him._

_She smiles to her ceiling, eyes on the white panels. _

"_Have you considered calling in sick," he asks her, his breath warm on the inner slope of her right breast, the slight little stubble on his chin scratching, "I wouldn't mind lying with you in here for the rest of the month."_

_She laughs, "I think Taylor will find it odd, me calling in sick on your behalf."_

_He chuckles, his tongue wet against her skin – he licks a wet path to her lips and captures them in a slow, persistent kiss. _

"_So that's a no," he asks against her lips, eyes full of humor when she looks into them. _

"_It's called responsibility, Andy," she giggles, feeling fluttery and giddy – she wouldn't mind staying in bed with him. _

_He smiles. _

…

_Their coffees are cold, the clock telling her she's more late than she's ever been before and well, the shower takes more time than ordinary – he's compact against her back, arms around her middle and insisting that his lips are pressed to a patch of her skin in an almost continuous flow. By this rate they will never make it in time she thinks. She's not sure if it bothers her or not; maybe it bothers her that it really does not bother her. _

…

_She's smoothing down the labels of his suit, hands straightening his tie when she realizes something. It's heavy and profound, unexpected like lightning from the sky; it's the color of his eyes when they are fixed on her, it's the softness in his touch and it's the feeling of something paining her that makes it vividly clear. _

_Her giddy smile falters and she looks down, moisture in her mouth feeling thick, almost obstructing as she tries to swallow it. _

_He lands a finger under her chin and tilts till their lips meet._

_She feels it in the kiss, feels it in the way it tingles and bubbles._

_She feels it in the way she wants to envelop him an embrace, in the way she wants to delve more deeply into the kiss – in the way she wants to divest of all their clothes again and simply walk back into her bedroom. _

_She feels lost, conclusively. _

_She is not ready for this._

…

_She's not ready for this either, the letter staring up at her; no matter how many times she closes her eyes and opens them again it's there, positioned on the floor in front of her apartment door; white envelope and writing that she recognizes by now. No postage mark; simply delivered to her personally._

_He's not ready for it either she knows, his face crumbling in anger and something she cannot decipher; he looks intimidating – he looks like thunder. _

_Two letters – she wonders if this is how Rusty felt when he got one letter after another; and it crashes into her even harder, nausea and dread._

…

They break apart, his hands holding her head now, a soft thumb on either side. Anger rapidly fades – and she cannot even pinpoint down why they were kissing each other angrily, cannot for the life of her bring it back. She feels lost again, overwhelmed she thinks – and yet just the feeling of him this close and it's comforting.

His eyes are that soft brown color again, the one that slips beneath her skin in a tingle, "All I want is for you to be safe," he says, his voice pained. "I just want you – safe and -" his voice hitches in part distress and the corner of her eyes itches.

"I know, I know. I'm glad you're here," she whispers, feeling dizzy from everything – dizzy from the fact that they've now done this at work – even if it's as innocent as kissing. Dizzy from the fact that she's not ready for any of it; she's not ready to fall into this with him.

He nods, "But?" a little caress along her cheek with a thumb.

"No buts," she tries to reassure him, "only – I'm just a bit overwhelmed by everything, this morning and… maybe – I don't know. I just need a little space."

He nods, "I'll do whatever you want me to."

She shakes her head and then follows his arms, her head against his chest. She brings her own arms around his middle, inhaling the soft scent of him.

"Everyone's looking at me, hovering around me. I'm not fragile – and I can take care of myself."

"I know you can, sweetheart."

The endearment slips from his lips and she's not even sure he's aware of it; that's another little thing. What if he starts calling her honey in the middle of an interview with a suspect or something equally incriminatory? What if people start to notice he's being awfully touchy with her, notice the way his leans in close, the way his hand lingers on her back. What if they question the way he looks at her, with such warmth and affection. What if someone comes into the bathroom in this very moment and catches them embracing?

He speaks again, his voice a rumble, "When we catch the bastard I'll even let you tackle him first," she chuckles with him, and there's an undertone of lightness in his voice now, "It's not a question of whether you can defend yourself or not; it's a question of how I feel."

Her throat becomes dry, her skin tingling in a strange way. It's too early she thinks, her mind panicking, her body seeming to go into auto mode – she can't deal with it yet. She just needs a bit of time to come to terms with this before he utters it out aloud; she needs to ponder it before he starts saying it.

"I feel better knowing where you are. That's all."

"Okay," she agrees, relief when he does not say anything else. Her arms tighten around him and she's truly glad he's here.

She's just not ready to fall in love.

…


	4. into hope

A/N: my teeth ache from fluff – I'm sure it has nothing to do with consuming heaps of candy and coffee ;) I hope you all enjoy.

…

**/into hope/**

…

She stalks his living room, the white-washed wooden floor cool against her bare feet – she sees no point in striding around in her Manolo's and barefoot she has the advance of being able to sneak around almost without sound – she smiles when he yet again manages to generate more noise in his kitchen than she had thought was necessary for merely throwing together a risotto.

It might be the second time she's here at his apartment but the first time barely counts in her mind; she had practically jumped him in his kitchen then and had for all practices and purposes only seen the dark interior of his master bedroom. This is different; there's a soft light and she's able to walk around – snooping as he will put it with a cheeky smile.

She's perusing the many pictures in black frames he has assembled on one wall, her eyes soft when they land on her lieutenant obviously much younger, hair jet black and two girls in his arms. There's something strange about seeing someone from years back when you've only known them as they are now in the present; she vaguely remembers him from back when they both started their careers in the force and she has met him a number of times in between but she was not aware of him back then like she is now. She barely paid him any attention back then – and when she did it was always in connection to an excessive force complaint. She found him a bit of an irritant back then.

She recognizes a younger looking Nicole Flynn in one picture, Andy beaming with a teenage Nicole, the requisite sour teenage. Most of the pictures feature his two girls, ranging from toddlers to teenagers to women; the other girl looks even more like her father, she thinks.

There's something curiously warm about standing in his living room, merry sounds coming from his kitchen, jazz soft throughout his apartment; he put it on the stereo for her sake she thinks. There's something delirious as well about the whole setting; he's making her dinner and she's trying to acquaint herself with his home and this bubbly feeling inside her. It's been ages since she's done any of it, ages since she's had that mutual giddy feeling to share with anyone.

She shakes her head, her smile once again silly; there's a funny picture with a black-haired Andy surrounded by a throng of likewise black-haired women, their striking familiar genetics not to miss; she reminds herself to ask about his family – she vaguely remembers him mentioning a hoard of sisters.

They've planned this thing in advance, yesterday. It still baffles her that it's actually a thing. It's technically a date, surely, and it makes her all kinds of nervous – as well as a bit overwhelmed. Second date, she thinks, if they count the wedding – but they don't; even if they had been exchanging warm silly smiles back then. The umpteenth date if they count the number of times they've been together in the whole naked bodies against each other setting, with him practically living in her home for a week.

She shakes her head with a little smile; it's still feels absurd.

She turns away from the pictures - there's really only so much snooping she can do in the living room on her own and the sounds from the kitchen beckon; she sneaks to the kitchen, standing in the frame of the wide archway. She regards the flurry of him making dinner – stirring the rice on the stove, cutting fresh parsley, grating parmesan cheese and meanwhile he's humming, a deep sound resonating. She finds him absolutely adorable – and she feels a bit self-conscious at that admonition.

She smooths down her black dress over her hips, thinking it's too snug; why she made a big deal out of dressing up she has no clue – but he's done the exact same, suit and tie. They cannot really go out and dine; the probability of meeting someone from work too high even if it's a low possibility and she feels more at ease being home with simply him. She likes the pretense of being only the two of them; it's simpler then.

He looks over his shoulder, his smile rogue, "You done snooping around?"

She shakes her head, her voice vibrating with suppressed giggles, "No."

He rolls his eyes and then with a little flick he stirs the pot, eyes still on her, gleaming. She leans against the door frame, watching. She's calm in a way she hasn't been in a while, she reflects, the threatening letters almost entirely forgotten and the absence of Rusty, she can relocate that. She wonders if he feels like she does – as if it's just the two of them in the whole existence.

There's a serenity to their interactions now, a tranquil feel about his presence that she craves; she silently approaches him, her hand on his spine, palm pressed lightly against his clothed back. She stands on tiptoe, leaning over his shoulder to look at the nearly done risotto on the stove, the creamy rice smelling absolutely delicious; she likes the fact that he can cook more than the basic necessities. There's something very intriguing about that fact.

She watches as he smiles, the scent of him up close distinct now.

"You hungry?" he asks her, an arm suddenly going around her waist and he turns around, eyes brown and warm as he regards her.

She hums, trying to contain her mirth – she feels it spread like warmth through her facial muscles though, instant broad smile already firmly in place.

He leans down and she meets him halfway, the soft yet firm kiss leaving her with the impression of further warmth, like the drowsiness that settles in after soaking in a warm bath. It continues, languid and slow, bodies turning till they are pressed into each other, front to front, and she has to tilt her head even further, almost standing on her toes. She can feel the light touch of his hands now on her hips, a caress as much as a hold.

She hums again, smiles into the kiss, breaking apart from him for a second to breathe in air and then they meet again; she could continue to stand like this forever and she thinks he agrees with that sentiment, moving closer to her, a small rumble from his throat, his hands firmer in their hold on her waist.

It's a curious concept, perception and the matter of perspective; years back and she would have laughed if not cried about the prospect of being with him like this. He's the resident hothead – quick to anger, always in trouble one way or the other, an unparalleled talent for sticking his foot in his mouth. And yet he's something else entirely; affectionate and considerate. She would never have believed him to be loyal – at least not to her and yet he is; he was the first to have her back in the squad, the first to really invite her in.

She thinks one day she'll tell him how many hours she spent on trying to come up with ways to win him over in the week before it was officially announced she was the new leader of major crimes – the many hours she spent thinking he would be an absolute unwavering thorn in her side; and he simply raised his voice once and that was it. She still remembers the utter surprise she had felt then; not in the moment but afterwards, wondering where the lieutenant from her fid files had gone to. She thinks he'll find it amusing.

"I'm hungry but I'm not really hungry," she tells him, her lips vibrating against his; she opens her eyes, catching the naked look of desire in brown eyes before she once again closes her eyes, her lips fastening together like glue with his.

His fingers play with the sides of her abdomen, soft small caresses, going around in circles that broaden their horizon and she sucks in a breath when the pads go upwards, palm against the side of her breasts. It tingles in anticipation and her owns hands leave behind the short hair at the back of his neck and she turns to the labels of his shirt, lingering on the tie.

She smiles and she feels the answering smile in his kiss.

"I want you naked," he growls and it tingles even more intensely, sprinting to her groin like heavy lead where it coalesces into heat – she really wants him to be naked as well.

She nods, not trusting her voice to generate anything but breathy whimpers.

"The risotto can be reheated," he rationalizes, lips on the corner of her mouth, small little kisses as he thinks out aloud, "and well," one of his hands leaves her body and she follows him backwards toward the stove where he turns it off, "who knows how long until we get called out to a murder – we might as well eat dessert first, huh."

She laughs, shaking her head a bit.

…

_It's a strange feeling that suddenly arises in her, its depths and interpretation puzzling to her; her apartment empty and silent, devoid of his presence. She's alone. It's strange how something that has been a constant in her life for a lifetime now seems alien to her. To put it simply, she misses him – she misses him like she misses Rusty and it's a surprise to find that there are these two people in her life that she misses so much that their absences feels like voids._

_She had thought she had merely filled one void with a little distraction but they are two, separate voids – it's a strange realization that washes over her when she finds that he's become a void in his own right. Nothing might have happened between them if Rusty had still been in her care and yet, in hindsight, she recognizes the small little signs that have flittered between them before now. Maybe something would have happened in the future anyway – events might just have rushed things along between them._

_She sighs, her eyes flickering around the ceiling of her living room, feeling empty. Her apartment is secure and she's on alert – there's no need for police protection on her now, not when she has her gun and not when back-up is a phone call away. Yet she feels lonely in her apartment. _

_It bothers her that he's not here now, that he's not sitting next to her on the sofa, a hand in hers. She sent him home herself and yet she's regretting it already; it's a surprise – she likes her privacy and he's been living with her for a week now. She thought she needed just a little time for herself and now she's missing him. _

_She shakes her head, annoyed with herself._

_She pulls her mac book onto her lap, opening it. She has some files to look through, some research. There was something in the second letter she received; the trace of nicotine. So the perpetrator – the person responsible for the letters – smokes, most likely. _

_She can't really concentrate on the words however, instead she wonders – for the umpteenth time – why he even agreed to go home to his own place; he was far more agreeable about it when she suggested she needed a night for herself than she had imagined. She had expected some kind of disagreement and yet he had calmly agreed, saying something about laundry and clean clothes. _

_There's a vague pounding behind her right eye and she knows it will burst into a full headache later on – she can already feel tension building up around her neck. She rubs her temple, going hard into the skin and around in circles._

_She just needed a little time to herself to figure out everything and now she apparently needs him here to figure it out; it doesn't make sense. How can she both want him to be here and yet not? _

_And why, of all things, does she miss him like he's been a permanent fixture of her life for the last decade? Why, now of all times, does she ache for human contact when it's practically been five seconds since he bestowed a little kiss on her? Why, when she hasn't missed contact particularly in the last decade of her life? How can he change her life so irrevocably?_

_For the love of god; she might as well admit it now when she's alone and no one's here to read her thoughts or reprimand her; she obviously likes him more than she first thought. She has obviously fallen for him in a way she hasn't expected. _

_Maybe – just maybe – she needs to just give in to the feeling. _

_She shakes her head yet again, feeling utterly ridiculous._

_There's no reason to hold back – not really. No reason to second guess or hesitate; not really. The flimsy excuse of being colleagues and in the same command chain; why that's an absurd excuse considering how she feels. The excuse of being a married woman; that's even worse and frankly she should really stop using Jack to avoid emotionally compromising situations. _

_She sighs. _

_And then unable to hold it in she smiles. _

_She's truly an idiot sometimes._

…

_Her bedroom seems awfully empty as well when it's only her, the room spacious and dark and her bed too wide. She feels as if she's almost drowning in the vastness of it, unable to find a place to rest and unable to feel comfortable. She turns on her side, her head on the pillow he used only yesterday; it still carries the scent of him, masculine and soft. _

_She ends up lying on the side he has otherwise preoccupied, her eyes on the clock on the nightstand; it's approaching 1 am and still she feels wide awake, mulling over her life and contemplating the absurdity of everything – why she apparently needs him by her side when she practically told him to bugger off and give her a few days to herself. It's absurd. _

_It's so awfully absurd it makes her smile to herself – again – and then she feels embarrassed, then silly, then lonely and then even more silly; and it's a vicious circle that haunts her for another sleepless hour. _

_Maybe it's a good thing she tries to reason with herself; he occupies her thoughts and as such her every waking thought is not preoccupied by the reality of being in danger or the suspicion that she let Rusty down; why if she focusses solely on him there's a reason to smile._

_Her room is bathed by light suddenly, the display on her phone turning on; she takes it from the nightstand and finds him calling her; her smile broadens._

"_Yes," she greets him, her voice sounding more breathy than she had intended._

"_I can't sleep," he admits and she finds it adorable that he admits it as the first thing. It makes it easier for her to whisper back a "Me neither."_

_There's a little moment of silence and she can hear him breathing over the line, something rustling. _

"_It's ridiculous and downright silly," he says, a long drawn out breath like a prolonged sigh._

_She smiles softly, agreeing, "Yes – I don't understand it."_

"_Me neither."_

_This might be the most unintelligible phone conversation she's ever had. She turns further on her side, one cheek burrowing into the pillow that has his scent and the phone at her other side, pressed to her ear. He's breathing in a rhythm she has come to recognize; it still frightens her but at the same time she finds it to be more soothing than frightening. _

"_Do you mind that I called?" he asks softly and for a moment she's speechless but then she understands; he's probably hesitant since she told him she wanted some time to herself. She's just immensely glad he called; she never would have gotten up the nerve to do it herself. _

_She hums, "I was just thinking about you." She rolls her eyes in the dark; now that sounded absolutely horrible and too cliché. _

_She hears the rumble of his laughter over the phone and she chuckles with him. _

"_Oh really," he nudges her, his voice that low rumble she finds awfully pleasurable. _

"_Mm-hmm."_

"_Mm-hmm," he imitates her, "coincidently, I was thinking about you too."_

_She smiles, "I like the sound of your sleepy voice – it's both rough and soft."_

_He laughs again, "have anyone ever told you that you're prone to bouts of randomness when you're tired."_

_She hums instead of answering._

"_I want to make you dinner," he says in equal randomness and his voice is serious now._

"_Now?" she wonders out aloud, feeling her eyelids becoming suddenly heavy. She closes her eyes, only aware of his breaths now and the feeling of warmth she's surrounded in._

"_No silly," he's wearing an impish smile now she thinks and he's most assuredly rolling his eyes, "Tomorrow or something. Whenever you feel like coming over; I'll even make something sinful for dessert."_

"_You want to make me dinner?" she yawns and she feels all mushy and soft._

_He feigns a sigh as if he's finding her difficult, "Yeah – that's what I said."_

_She hums, tugging the linen more firmly around her; she wouldn't mind if he lay behind her now, arms around her and his chest pressed against her back, the warm air he would speak into her neck with. The soft little kisses he would most assuredly pepper on her neck, the way he would nuzzle his nose into the hairline just behind her ear. _

"_You falling asleep on me?" there's a soft edge of humor to his voice that she likes._

"_Mm-hmm."_

"_Sooo – It's date?"_

_She smiles, "Yes."_

_There's a brief little pause and she thinks she could fall asleep to the sound of him breathing._

"_You still there," he asks softly, a small tone of wonder to his voice. _

"_Yes," she whispers, "what are you going to make for dessert?"_

_He chuckles, "It's a surprise."_

"_That's awfully reckless of you – what if I'm allergic to your surprise?"_

"_Are you allergic to any food?" there's that rough, raw quality of sarcasm in his voice now and she giggles a breathy "No."_

"_Geez, woman," he mock-laments and she giggles again. _

_Another little moment of silence – and she feels something that tugs at her heart, something that's both heavy and light, something familiar and heartfelt._

"_Andy?"_

"_Mm-hmm."_

"_Goodnight."_

"_Night," he says, voice so soft she almost misses it. _

…

It takes longer than she's imagined to move from his kitchen to his bedroom; maybe it has something to do with the fact that she doesn't not want to let go of him or the kiss. Every little step they take is interspersed with a prolonged period of simply standing, kissing and hands soft on each other; it's wonder they even make it to his bedroom at all.

They stand outside his bedroom, the door ajar for what feels like an eternity, his palms warm against her cheeks and his lips soft, molding into form with hers and she feels as if he's slowly and surely melting into her skin.

"You've really got to taste the risotto though," he whispers when he lets go of her lips, hovering close to her jaw for a second before he presses a kiss to her neck, the wet imprint tickling, "and I made you brownies – you really need to taste those as well."

"I will," she breathes into his hair, her hands in the short strands again as he moves further down her throat with his lips, sucking and leaving imprints in a route to the hemline of her dress; she feels that breathless tensile feeling inside her ribcage; her chest heaving to be rid of the restraint and her breasts almost aching to be touched by his lips; touched by his hands – it doesn't really matter as long as he touches her. "I just - " she stops to inhale, "I really just want to - " his hands are on the hemline now, moving it down over her shoulders, just a fraction, a thumb on the bare patch of skin at the top of her shoulder.

She exhales. "I missed you," she ends up saying, not sure where the words come from – not sure what she had wanted to say.

His eyes smile back at her, his hands still on her body; they move at the same time, lips parting and settling into another kiss, this one more hurried than the preceding ones.

They move through the door and she likes the notion that they do not have to bother with either closing or locking the door; it's still ajar and his bedroom would have been pit black but the open door brings in a soft light and she finds this exhilarating and mysterious in its own right.

"I want you all the time," he growls, catching her bottom lip between his teeth and biting down playfully.

There's something exhilarating about him voicing out aloud exactly what he wants and exactly what he feels; it's a novel concept for her but it feels like being half drunk; that and the tone of his voice goes directly down to her center and she can feel an ache, her walls almost noticeably throbbing at the idea of him so blatantly frank.

"I want you too, naked and just – I just want to lie in bed with you," she smiles, running a hand down his clothed chest.

"You're unbelievably sexy," he grins and hooks a thumb under her dress, arching an eyebrow as he slowly draws the hem up along her thighs, "and shit, I haven't felt like this in a long time."

She briefly looks down, feeling unbearably soft and happy; there's no reason to feel apprehensive about this she knows and no reason to worry about whether or not she's falling for him; it's rather inconsequential – because reality is that she is happy with him; he's solid and supportive and affectionate.

"I feel almost constantly silly," she tells him, her mouth pressing against his throat, her fingers on the tie, "silly and happy," she laughs self-consciously at the revelation. It's not a big one but she thinks he might understand what she means.

He presses his lips to her forehead, hands soft under her chin, "I like you all silly."

She grins, throwing the tie to the ground and working on the buttons of his shirt now.

"I bet you do," she flirts back.

He leans down, lips hard against hers suddenly and his hands are now pulling her dress upwards in a hurry, bunching her expensive dress around her middle; and she doesn't care at all, quickly undoing every little button on his shirt, the garment soon following the tie to the floor.

He suddenly stops, motionless, eyes on her exposed legs.

"Damn," he mumbles and he's not kissing her anymore but instead occupied by trailing fingers along the lace of her underwear – it's a deep red and she smiles, he obviously likes the color. She's unbuckling his pants, unzipping the fly and she's in the middle of sliding his pants down his thighs before he moves again, lips catching hers.

He steps out of the pants, leaving them on the floor; she finds a place for her hands to settle, fingers just under the band of his underwear, palms flat against the curve of his back, bringing him flush up against her; "and I match," she whispers in his ear, standing on tiptoe and letting her tongue trace the shell of his ear.

He chuckles, hands grabbing her ass and bringing her groin into contact with him, making sure she can feel the impact already; she kisses his jaw, hands leaving his back and going to the front, tracing the outline of his hardness instead. She captures his lips and feels the groan tingle on her lips, feels his tongue hard against her own, lips compressed together in a more rough approach. They stumble towards the bed, half jumping onto the mattress, sharing silly laughs as they land. She rolls them around, her hands on his shoulders and she keeps him on his back – she slings one leg over him and settles atop his stomach.

She grins at him, taking hold of her dress bunched around her middle and pulling it over her head – she flings it back over her shoulder, thinking it will land next to his pants.

"Mm-hmm," he hums appreciatively, eyes on the matching bra. She rolls her eyes briefly, smiling and running her hands down his chest and up again, grinding down on his cock, her underwear feeling absolutely in the way.

He hums again, hands on her hips then and he pushes her down again. She smiles. It's been some time since she's grinded against someone with underwear on; it's another silly feeling she likes. His hands travel up, a bit chilly against her skin, creeping upwards, traversing her ribs and fingering the lace of her bra and then they slide around to her back, quickly and assuredly unclasping it. She helps him, slide her arms out of it; she watches as he throws it to join the rest of their clothe pile.

His hands instantly palms her breasts then, cupping and massaging, thumbs flicking over nipples, rolling nipples between an index finger and a thumb; eyes exclusively on them as well. She smiles to herself, closing her eyes and enjoying the feeling. She leans down after a while capturing his lips, the need to kiss him overwhelming.

He flips them over, his legs tangled with hers now as the lie face to face on their sides. They still their kiss and he stares at her for a long time, an infectious smile that curves his whole expression.

She smiles back, letting her fingers traverse down across his chest, travelling down his abdomen and she goes under his underwear watching his eyes as she lets her hand slide around his cock, her grip going up and down.

His lips crash into hers again, inviting and insisting – plying her lips apart, lavishing kiss after kiss on her mouth, bringing to surface that special feeling of becoming lost in simply kissing.

She continues to pump him, exhilaration streaming through her, tension threatening to turn to hissing evaporation; his lips slide up along her cheek, biting and pulling at her earlobe, "You always so hands-on?" he asks her, voice raw and yet mirthful – flirtatious and playful.

"You're fishing," she hums, immediately catching where his train of thought is obviously going. Her thumb goes over the glans, a bit of moisture already there and she flicks her thumb back, sliding it now in a caress around the head of his cock.

He groans, "Yeah – well, how about it?"

She smiles, sliding down and cupping his balls and instead of answering she merely hums again.

He press a kiss to her lips, then "I'm curious about you – beyond curious actually. I want to know every little thing about you."

She looks up finding that brown color to be a striking dark color.

"You want to know what I'm like with other sexual partners?" she asks, her tone caught between humor and confusion; it's another goddamn new aspect with him.

He laughs, one hand sliding down her back and the other trying to push her underwear down, "Not at all – I'm curious. When was the last time you -" he waggles his eyebrows, doing a little dance with his hips.

She chuckles, "Again, you're fishing."

He agrees with a cheeky smile, "Naturally."

She rolls her eyes, "You're thinking something absolutely horrid now aren't you?" his eyes turn darker, "Enlighten me and I might tell you what you desire to know."

He shakes his head, purses his lips and then, "You've been separated twenty years or something now?"

Anyone else and she would want to hit them with something hard and blunt; she merely laughs and gives him a long look, "I haven't been celibate in twenty years if that's what you're fishing for."

He smiles wide, "I didn't think so."

"You liar!" she laughs, catching that cheeky grin of his.

"Well – you are an enigma. I never know what to expect."

She smiles, "and you?"

"Me – what about me?" he pretends to be clueless and it's a little adorable, the slight pout and lifted eyebrow.

She gently hits his arm, "Stop it," she admonishes him with a smile.

"Weeell," he starts in a drawl, "there was this chick about two years back."

She shakes her head, "Chick? What are you, twenty?"

His smile widens, "Hey, if you can call yours sexual partners, I can call mine chicks."

She rolls her eyes and then feeling mischievous, "So, what you're saying is that ever since I joined your squad you've been under a dry spell." She giggles, feeling warm and soft.

He laughs, shaking his head "You're unbelievable."

"You know it," she counters, meeting his lips again, wondering how this can feel so soft and light and mirthful; another aspect she has never expected to find with him.

The kiss turns into something much more intense, hands quite insisting her underwear fly off her in a flicker of a second and she's quite insistent his likewise fly to the end of the bed; his hands grip roughly around the back of her thighs and it's a surge of pleasure, pooling in her groin and tingling, and he's suddenly heavy on top, at her opening and guiding himself inside her in a long, hard trust. He stays inside, eyes on her and his lips descend – another kiss and she arches upwards, pressing herself to him, wanting that imprint of lips to be more vivid, more heartfelt.

"You're simply wonderful," he says; and it's a new thing – all this sweet talk in the middle of everything, even more novel because it's honest.

She answers him with another kiss, her hands holding on to his back, his skin warm.

He trusts into her, a slow pace – almost lazy she thinks.

They stay like this for a little prolonged time, engaged and enveloped by warmth and soft pleasure.

It changes suddenly, his eyes darkening and his touch more powerful; he slides out of her and then in a raspy and dark voice he whispers, "turn around."

She obeys and turns around to lie on her stomach; she feels him slide a pillow in under her stomach, feels him settle on top of her again, between her legs and sliding into her again, this time another angle and oh god, he grips the front of her thighs and trust into her again, sliding out and in with force, animation in the pace.

He's warm against her spine, snuck and delicious between her legs, keeping the same rhythm, hurried and hard; his breath humid next to her ear and hair – she arches into it, her arms flying up and landing further up the mattress.

"Shit, this is perfect," he whispers in between hurried gasps and she hums in agreement.

There's another nuance to this she thinks – it's a combination of almost pain and exquisite pleasure radiating from her center at every thrust; curling in a such a way she simply wants him to go faster – she simply wants it to continue like this.

"We have to try to bend your over a desk sometime," he nuzzles his nose into her hair and her breath hitches at the mention of that scenario; there's something exciting about him when he talks like this, when he talks about the future and their next encounter.

"You'll like that, I'm sure," she whimpers, feeling her walls throb at the next thrust, pleasure spreading through her in rapid, bouldering beams. She won't be able to come like this; and yet it's too delicious to suggest another position. She can't get a finger on her clit and it doesn't bother her at all – she pushes her ass back into him, encouraging him, feeling the way his warmth intensify against her skin, becoming slick, exertion in the breath he leaves in her hair. He's pressing his lips to her cheek and she can feel sweat on her back – and everything is simply exciting.

She can feel him speed up and she knows he's close, breath turning to more frequent pants, gasps and moans and she enjoys listening to him, enjoys the way everything seems to coil tight in her pelvis like an agglomeration of electricity simmering. The last few thrusts are without rhythm and he stills, even heavier on top of her now, warm with sweat that glues him to her and she turns her head slightly able to capture his lips with her mouth instead of her cheek; there's salt in the kiss, wet and a bit shaky she thinks.

"Give me two minutes to rest and I'm gonna make you come too," he says, voice still raspy when he lets go of the kiss. She chuckles in return.

They clean themselves, a tissue box handy on his nightstand; and then they rearrange themselves and she watches as he collapses on his back, legs haphazardly placed in a way only really men can accomplish. She scoots close to his side, head in her hand and leaning on elbow as she watches him; she splays a hand on his chest, fingers lazily tracing invisible patterns on his skin.

He opens his eyes and stares back. It's a very tender look she thinks and he's surely about to tell her something when his phone starts vibrating somewhere on the floor.

She quirks an eyebrow and he shakes his head in response, "leave it."

She's about to tell him a thing or two about not answering his phone when it starts again; he rolls his eyes but scrambles off the bed. It could be a call-out; that's the nature of their profession.

"Flynn," he growls into the phone, his eyes on her, a look of admiration, up and down her naked body; it immediately changes when the person on the other end says something, his eyes darkening and a little worried line appears around his mouth. "You're kidding. Shit, no. Just shit."

There's a pause and she wonders who it is on the other line and what they're saying.

"Sure," he says, "Yeah, I'll try to call her – maybe she'll answer. Can we send someone out? To look? Hmm."

She becomes a little worried now as well, sitting up and taking the linen with her, trying to pull it around her shoulders; she feels a little cold now and uncomfortable with being naked when something is obviously wrong.

"Yeah," he says again, eyes on her and now full of worry and apprehension, "I'll get dressed and meet you, yeah. See you."

He ends the call and then simply stares at her.

"Um," he starts, brows knitting together in uncertainty.

"Just tell me," she orders him, her tone more firm than usual but he's looking at her as if she's going to break into pieces any second now.

"I'm sorry, Sharon," he says and then he takes a deep breath, "Rusty's gone from the DA's custody."

It's as if the ground disappears from under her feet.

…

A/N: sorry, that last part was obviously not even in the remote vicinity of fluff… but I couldn't help myself. =)


End file.
